


Shelter and Comfort

by textsandscones



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Any of you I know IRL I will blush like beetroot if you bring this up in casual convo, First Time, M/M, Past Drug Use, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-04 00:30:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2902760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/textsandscones/pseuds/textsandscones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's passing the summer before university volunteering as a shelter medic on Baker Street, and can't help but be drawn to the inky-haired genius working in the bookshop across the road, who has more of a troubled story than he first lets on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shelter and Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisemptyheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisemptyheart/gifts).



> Sorry this ended up taking so long, setting back off for uni and dealing with Christmas family hijinks was a bit more full on than I expected!
> 
> This is for the lovely Keiran AKA shezzaswatson, and I hope you all enjoy!

On a warm afternoon in June, with sunlight glaring through the tall white-paned windows of 218 Baker Street, also known as The Baker Street Irregular Shelter, a young constable by the name of Gregory Lestrade was standing outside the front door. He was in the process of taking off his hat to ruffle his short brown hair with its speckled grey flecks, and sighed at the fact that his hair probably made him look much older than his boyish twenty-two year old self. He glanced at his watch, wondering just what sort of mess John had decided to get himself into this time, the third time this month. He smiled, knowing his friend only had other people's best interests at heart. But why did the daft sod always have to wander into danger's path at any given chance?

 Knowing it probably wasn't strictly the best idea to have his mobile phone on him when he should be working, he tapped out a text to said friend.

  _Hurry up, you daft bugger. I've got a date with Molly tonight! I'd rather not be stuck filling out even more paperwork!_ \- Greg

 John ignored his trembling phone as it vibrated on the table, keener to pay attention to the grazed knuckles of the girl sat next to him at the kitchen table. Bandages and plasters littered the first aid kit beside him as he worked, his eyes focused upon the long cut on Evie's forearm, dabbing tenderly at her elbow. He zoned in and out of listening to Evie's rambling, swallowing around the lump in his throat whenever he heard something about her troublesome tale that hit too close to home. She was still in shock, and he knew often enough that some people dealt with that with some nervous chattering. God, Evie really was like his sister. Poor soul.

 A knock at the door distracted the both of them from their trains of thought. Evie let a little cry escape her, though whether it was from the sharp sting of antiseptic, or the sight of a titian-haired girl pushing open the door and meeting her eyes with relief, John never had the chance to ask.

 'Evie!'

John finished tucking away the loose end of bandage around her elbow, and helped Evie to standing, and in seconds she held her arms open for her friend to hug the breath out of her.

 'I'm sorry, Fi, I'm so sorry, I didn't think they would, I can't believe you made it here-'

 Fiona gently pressed her lips to Evie's, mumbling 'It’s alright, it’s okay now’ as they squeezed each other tight. Evie giggled, kissing her cheek again and again, tears threatening to spill.

 'John?' The girl turned around, and hugged his waist, and god, this was worse than anything. He needed to call Harry and sort things out with her as soon as possible. 'Thank you, both you and Mike, for everything. I don't know how I can-'

 'It's no trouble, honestly. Well, just a tad, I guess,' John smiled, and rubbed absent-mindedly at his bruised shoulder. He still felt a little sore from taking the brunt of the fistfight with Evie's attacker that had left the latter bloke knocked out flat upon the ground, and John carefully pulling Evie back up from her tentative position of hanging by her fingertips from the railings of a bridge.

 'I'd barely last another week looking after myself out there.'

 'Well we've got each other now, I can look out for you.'

 'More good than my family ever did for me.'

John smiled as he watched the girls leave with Greg, following soon after once he thanked Mike for the day and clocked out. Greg was waiting for him, with a wry smile hidden behind the roll of his eyes.

  'You know, you could just join the Met if you're planning to be a vigilante superhero.'

 'Oh shove off, Greg,' he joked, and nudged Greg's shoulder, though at the back of his mind he honestly did wonder how he seemed to be drawn towards danger like a moth to a flame. 'I'd like to see you try and be a shelter medic without running into a few muggings and assault scenarios every now and then.'

 'Fair enough. As always, John H Watson, you're an A class citizen!' Greg gave him a lazy salute with the tip of his hat, before walking along with the two girls in the direction of NSY, giving a call over a shoulder, 'See you for rugby this weekend?'

 'I'll give you a rain check on that,' he smiled back, a slight grimace crossing his face when he felt a twinge in his shoulder again. 'See you Greg!'

Clocking out for the afternoon, much later than he usually planned, John slung his jacket over his shoulder and grinned as he crossed the road to Martha Hudson’s bookshop.

 'Evening, Mrs H!'

‘Ooh, John dear, I’ll just be out in a tic!’

The bookshop may have seen better days, with dark jacquard wallpaper mismatched against the palm tree print of the other walls but it was cosy and felt like home, especially when his own home was exactly where he did not want to go to. Tall, crammed bookshelves were warmly lit by the glow of the overhead lamps and the fading sunlight filtering through the windows. He clutched his phone in his pocket absently, pursing his lips as he walked between the aisles.

Heaving a sigh, he pulled his phone out of his jeans, hovering over the H list of his contacts, before putting it away again. He didn't need to deal with this, even if he did care. Enough people had told him so over the past year.

Harry Watson was not necessarily the worst sister in the world, in fact, there were many wonderful things about her. She taught John how to climb trees, pass his GCSEs without panicking, stand up for himself against intimidating high school dickheads, and love himself regardless of what horrible things came his way. He only wished Harry could take some of her own life lessons to heart. He wished she could still love herself and realise that he wanted to help her, no matter how bad her drinking got, or how often she argued with their dad about her girlfriends. But there was only so much a younger brother could do. She was living in Brixton now, with Clara, although he could already tell how rocky that seemed to be.

If it wasn't for the second time he went in search of Harry after she ran away after a monumental argument with their dad, John realised he’d probably never have been in such a novel position to be volunteering at the very same young person’s shelter that had found her and helped her get back on her feet. It was a shame that Harry never wanted to return home, but he understood why. He truly did. He just wished he himself could be as brave as her.

He was grateful to find a place like this, and pondered over the Biology section, keen to get himself a decent copy of Gray’s Anatomy by the time he headed off to Kings.

‘You are certifiably not using Billy in your Halloween display this year, Mrs Hudson. I need him.’

A clipped male voice issued out from behind the counter, soon followed by a tall skinny boy with inky curls and a soft smirk passing across his lips. He appeared to be carrying no less than ten books in his arms, and, placing several upon one bookshelf single-handedly, he scaled the rolling ladder to stack the remaining books on the uppermost shelf. He balanced precariously, finding each book’s particular position within bare seconds. John glanced down the end of the aisle, almost sure that this bloke was so unaware that he was about five seconds away from falling and knocking his head. Before John knew it, the boy turned his head, one foot slipping on a rung of the ladder and bracing himself as he started to tumble backwards against the other bookcase.

John caught the side of the ladder, and the lanky boy’s outstretched hand in his own, and blinked in surprise to find two startlingly inquisitive eyes staring at him. It was almost unnerving, and he wasn’t quite sure if the boy was caught like a rabbit in the headlights with shock, or actually staring and picking apart every single atom that made up John’s being.

‘Careful, might do yourself an injury,’ John smiled, and released his hand when the boy had his feet safely set down on the ground again.

‘Quite sure you’ve dealt with enough of those today.’

‘How-‘

‘Your hands. They have that chalky residue from the inside of new medical gloves on them, you’ve just been tending to a fresh wound, there’s a spot of blood on your sleeve, not your own, so obviously a patient. A girl walked by this shop just a few minutes ago with a bandage around her arm, alongside a policeman – doesn't take a genius to join the dots. And the strain in your arm. It was difficult for you to hold on to my arm for very long without grimacing and trembling just a fraction. You should probably get it seen to - most likely a trapped nerve or deep tissue bruise just below your clavicle. Of course, if it wasn't obvious enough, you _are_ standing in the Biology and Medicine aisles so it’s crystal clear you’re intending to become a doctor. So, you’re a volunteer medic about to study to be a doctor, with a certain familial sympathy for your workplace.’

‘That… well, yes, spot on. Holy hell, you’re kind of a genius, you know that?’

‘W-what?’ The boy cleared his throat and that same startled expression reappeared on his face. ‘That’s not what most people say.’

‘And what do most people say?’

_‘"Piss off."’_

‘Well, I'm not exactly most people.’

‘Hmmm. No, you’re not. The name’s Sherlock Holmes, by the way.’

‘John Watson,’ he responded, not as surprised as he expected to hear such an unusual name that seemed to fit with his slightly eccentric and other-worldly appearance. ‘How did you know about… well, about the family connection?’

‘Shot in the dark. Good one though. You dropped your phone,’ Sherlock knelt down as he said so, picking up John’s phone, his hand lingering when their fingers brushed each other’s. ‘It has ‘Harry Sis’ lit up on the screen. I assume that whatever’s just happened at work has made you remember your sister.’

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, the corner of his lip twitching as he looked down at his hand, before finishing with a grumble of ‘Humph, sentiment.’

‘You make it seem so bloody obvious now, but yeah, that’s true. You’re new, aren’t you? Just starting a summer job?’

‘At the request of my idiot older brother, yes. Said I needed to learn some self-discipline and routine. To be quite honest, I'm more than thrilled to have picked this place,’ Sherlock smiled softly to himself as he trailed his finger along the ridge of a bookshelf. ‘The amount of knowledge in these shelves, and mistakes to be corrected, I'm pretty sure I could make myself at home here.’

‘Bet you don’t want to tell your brother that though.’

‘God no, I’d never give him the satisfaction!’

John couldn't help belting out a laugh when he saw Sherlock’s face, contorted in such an expression as though he had bitten into a sour lemon, which within moments set both of them off sniggering. Sherlock’s laugh was low and rumbled in his chest, and for a second John wondered why he felt like his body was too small for the amount of burgeoning butterflies he felt in his stomach. Sherlock glanced up at him, his face caught somewhere between a grin and a frown before Mrs Hudson cooed from the counter, three cups of tea set out on a flowery tray.

‘Ah, John! Thanks for popping by!’

‘Not at all, Mrs H. Just bringing back the cake tin, Mike and I got you a little something for your troubles.’

‘Ooh, honey cakes! You are a pet!’

Sherlock poked his head from behind a bookcase, a look on his face like a dog hearing the scrape of its food bowl. He sauntered over, hand dipping into the tin before she could replace its lid, and biting into the sweet sponge, wiping away the crumbs on his lips with his thumb. John wondered why this boy seemed so ravenous all of a sudden, and grinned when Sherlock muffled out a surprised, ‘theetharelikeotmumsedoomake’.

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes, before patting him on the shoulder, a soft look of fondness on her face. Sherlock could hardly have been working in this shop for more than a week, and yet the two of them seemed to care for each other like mother and son. She turned back to John and patted his cheek, and John bashfully lowered his head. Somehow whenever Mrs Hudson was sweet to him he felt guilty, as though he should be this fond of his own parents, but one of them was dead, and the other was not exactly the nicest man in the world. He hid his face behind his mug of tea, swallowing slowly around that lump in his throat that seemed to only be getting more problematic as the day wore on.

‘Help yourself to a book, free of charge.’

‘Really?’ John smiled, and jumped as Sherlock vaulted the counter and started rifling through a cupboard.

‘Here, have this. It’s more use than the other 40 editions.’

A thick book, slightly dog-eared and tea-stained on the very tip of the bottom corner, was dropped in front of John on the countertop.

‘Almost certain Hudders would never actually let me sell that book in the physical state it is in, no matter how intellectually superior it is to an unaltered copy.’

John flicked through the reams of pages, blinking in surprise at the spidery scrawls in the margins and around the footnotes he stumbled across.

‘Wait… you’ve written in this.’

‘Mmm, yes,’ Sherlock said, smirking in amusement. ‘I think that’d be quite obvious considering what I’ve just said.’

‘Modesty isn’t your forte really, is it?’

‘You called me a genius, and yet you won’t let me realise my own prowess! Shame on you, John Watson, shame on you,’ Sherlock teased in mock scolding.

John huffed out a laugh, wondering how such a person could be so extraordinary. This boy seemed arrogant and cocky, but almost certainly had something about him that was timid, honest and child-like. “ _Piss off.” Piss off? Is that really what everyone else that Sherlock had met in his life had been like?_ John decided then and there that the rest of the world surely did not know what they were missing.

‘That’s because it’s better when I say it,’ John chuckled, and met Sherlock’s eyes again, sticking out his tongue.

‘That’s not untrue,’ Sherlock preened with a cheshire grin. The lanky boy looked down at his black oxfords, his smile shrinking until he shook his head free of his wandering thoughts and went back to straightening and rearranging the bookshelves.

John stared after him, watching as this mad stranger walked out of the room just as easily as he had stumbled into John’s life, and drew his gaze away from the curve of Sherlock’s arse in those smart well-fitting trousers when Mrs Hudson caught his attention with a small ‘ahem!’.

If John was aware that Mrs Hudson had a knowing twinkle in her eye and a smirk hiding in the very corner of her mouth, he absolutely did not acknowledge it out loud. And if he felt a certain little soft mushy feeling in his chest somewhere as he left the bookshop, he absolutely did not acknowledge it to himself.

* * *

 

'Hmm, you used to play the clarinet.'

 John spluttered over his coffee cup, and sat up straight from his comfy spot in the bay window seat, trying not to spill any liquid onto his book.

He thought back to the sly digs Greg would make about that little euphemism. _Playing the clarinet at school_. Oh who was he kidding, he absolutely wasn’t as straight as he thought he was back in high school when he loved snogging behind the bike sheds with pretty girls. It was even a little strange when he came home to his and Greg’s flat to find said friend’s half-naked girlfriend wrapping a skimpy dressing gown around herself and yet he didn’t get all hot and flustered like he used to. If anything, the only person that seemed to occupy his midnight thoughts seemed to be this lithe, curly-haired marvel. Even if he didn’t admit it out loud yet, he was pretty sure he felt comfortable in thinking of himself as bisexual. It didn’t seem so scary anymore.

He recovered from his little coughing fit to ask, 'how did you know?'

 'The way you sip your coffee. Sorry, that must sound rather-'

 'No, it’s fine.’ John grinned, twisting his coffee stirrer between his fingers. ‘Have you ever thought of being a detective? A mind like that, you should put it to some use.’

 'Actually, John, that's been something I've been desperate to do since I was eight. You could say it’s my calling, if you were one of those fools who had an external locus of control.’

‘You know, you could always speak to my friend Greg. He’s a constable for the Met.’ John offered, watching Sherlock restock a top shelf, biting his lip when Sherlock’s button-up shirt started to ride up just a little bit as he stretched, exposing the little dips by his hipbones and a pale stomach. _Ooh, stop it John Hamish Watson, you tart. Don’t get in over your head_. ‘He could give you some career advice.’

Sherlock seemed quiet all of a sudden, staring out of the bookshop window with a frown on his face. John wondered whether he had simply zoned out, or was thinking particularly hard about something. His mind palace, apparently that’s what Sherlock called it. He waved his hand in front of Sherlock’s face and smiled softly.

‘Sorry? Oh, I’ll think about it.’

John turned back to his beloved copy of Gray’s Anatomy, the tip of his finger trailing absent-mindedly across Sherlock’s handwriting.

* * *

 

The bell to that bookshop on Baker Street trilled at ten to six every other day, and this charming blond doctor-to-be and this gangly mad genius leaned against the counters to smile at each other. Sherlock was certain he could now perfect his timing down to the very second John walked through the door to have two coffees prepared and waiting by John’s favourite seat.

Just over a month had passed, into a hot, humid August, when John noticed Sherlock’s arms.

The little marks. Little faded track marks just below the crook of his elbow.

Sherlock had rolled up the sleeves of his favourite purple shirt, and John had paused halfway through a funny anecdote about what a complete tit he had made of himself on the rugby pitch the weekend before, and stared and stared, trying to breathe properly.

_Oh Sherlock._

‘It’s in the past.’

John wanted to lecture Sherlock, to rant and rave and tell him all about those few incidents in his time as a volunteer medic when he had stumbled across someone shivering or whining or dancing or shouting, half out of their minds. He wanted to tell him everything about his sister and how worried he was about her dependency on drink.

Eyes sore at the very brink of trying not to cry, he did not expect two large, warm hands to hesitantly cup his shoulders.

‘It was last year. My only friend at college, Victor. He…’ Sherlock paused, releasing his grasp on John and clasping his own hands together in his lap. John watched as Sherlock’s fingernails dug in little white crescents next to his knuckles. ‘I… I've always had trouble containing everything, everything going on in my mind. Sometimes it was unbearable. Sometimes I didn't know what to do when it all got too loud, too bright, too… too much.’

Sherlock pressed his fingers against his temples, the slightest fretful tremble barely visible in his fingertips. But John watched him. He watched his friend as he spilled it all out, opened up for what he assumed must have been the first time in an age.

‘So I did what I wanted to. I always have done. No-one forced me. Victor was adamant that I shouldn't go down the same road he did, but when he started to get himself clean… I couldn't.’

‘And then, one night… I blurted out something awful, something I’d observed and pieced apart out of my own curiosity about his father. Identity theft. Embezzlement. A criminal past. His family fell apart after that. Victor moved away. He blamed me for it, but wasn't it… wasn't it better that I was honest? Isn't it the right thing to tell the truth, and stop pretending to be living a lie?’

John met Sherlock’s gaze, those iridescent eyes wide and sincere as they flickered across John’s face.

‘Sherlock, you don’t need to-‘ John started.

‘Yes. I do. I got myself clean as soon as Victor left. Mycroft, my brother, he… he helped me. I didn't want my parents to worry. Mummy was at Harvard, and I-I couldn't-‘

He pulled Sherlock close to him, wrapping his arms tight around his waist, stopping Sherlock short. John clenched his fingers into the cotton of Sherlock’s shirt, feeling like a bloody idiot, feeling like a madman, feeling like the emotional, desperate, caring teenage boy that he was. His next words were muffled against the skin of Sherlock’s neck.

‘You are the most human, human being I've ever known.’

‘John,’ Sherlock sighed, as though every single weight on his shoulders, every single breath that passed through his lungs, and every single neurone that set alight in his brain could be made easier, made better, just by saying John’s name. ‘ _John_.’

If John felt the faintest touch of Sherlock’s lips on his forehead, he didn't mention it.

* * *

 

It was pouring down in Baker Street when John finally finished a long call to his sister, promising he would come and stay with her for a few days before he started uni. He stepped outside, turning up his coat collar as he tried to dash through the streets to make his way back to his flat. His shift had definitely stretched on a lot longer than he had intended, and regretted the fact that he couldn't stop by and see Sherlock again that night.

He took a shortcut down an alleyway before he stopped dead.

A soft whine issued from the other end of the alleyway, and a dark shape shuffled and stumbled against the wall. Whoever it was, and no matter how terrified he felt for a split second, this person was definitely unable to hold up their own weight anymore.

‘Hey, hey, it’s alright, I’m here to help. Are you hurt?’ John called, walking slowly, prepared to defend himself.

The figure hunched over even further, hiding their face inside the confines of that ratty hooded jacket. A small shake of the head gave John a slight sense of relief, but on hearing erratic half-sobs he was sure they would both rather be safe than sorry.

'Shhh, come on, sit up. I’m John, by the way. Would you like me to get you something to eat?'

 A pale hand clenched on his wrist, large, familiar, warm. A dark curl appeared from beneath the hood, along with a pair of watery silver eyes.

'J-john?'

'I didn’t- It wasn’t my fault- I was only…. I was only trying to-'

 John was speechless. He held Sherlock’s slightly trembling hands in his own, keeping the insane myriad of questions at bay in his mind as he tried to evaluate what physical state Sherlock was in. A split lip, a purplish tinge and swelling on his cheek. A particularly bloody cut at his hairline.

‘Can you stand? I’ll get you to a hospital, please, just-‘

'No, I don’t-'

‘Sherlock Holmes, don’t you bloody dare argue with me right now.’

Sherlock kept quiet, except for the shuddering breaths he took, shivering slightly from the lashing rain that seemed to chill the both of them to the core. When Sherlock didn't respond to John’s voice, and his eyelids started to flutter shut slowly, John panicked.

He couldn't quite remember what exactly he said on the phone to the emergency services, or what he was rambling on about when he was stroking Sherlock’s hand as he sat in the back of an ambulance, or how he ended up hyperventilating over the phone to Greg and demanding he should come and wait at the hospital with him at one in the morning.

* * *

‘John?’

John nodded awake, his left cheek uncomfortable and stiff from how he’d been dozing. He cricked his neck and stretched as he blinked up at Greg, who was still dressed in his uniform and had a look of worry in his eyes.

‘Greg. You need to help. You need to find the bastards who did this, before I very well go and do it myself. I-‘

John rubbed his eyes, heaving a sigh of frustration. He stared impatiently at the doors to the ward Sherlock had been kept in for the past hour. Greg lay a hand on his shoulder, and stood up straight when he saw a nurse walking in their direction, an understanding smile on her face. John jumped from his seat, alert, desperate. How he didn't just barrel through those doors in search of Sherlock he had no idea.

‘John Watson?’

‘Is he alright? Is he awake?’ he fretted. ‘I'm sorry, I panicked, it’s probably not as bad as I thought it was-‘

‘You were very sensible given the circumstances, since he arrived here when you noticed he wasn’t responding. Suffering from a concussion, and bruised ribs and collarbone. He’s still recovering, and might still be a little disorientated. Is there a family member-‘

‘Detective Constable Greg Lestrade, is it possible I can speak to Sherlock Holmes?’ Greg spoke professionally, with a charming smile, and she directed them to Sherlock’s ward.

‘Greg, what are you-‘ John hissed as they rushed down the corridors.

‘I’ve been promoted, I may as well make the most of it and help you out. Come on.’

Greg opened the door to Sherlock’s room, and John swallowed when he saw Sherlock’s pale and bruised face. When he came closer, he clenched his fists as he caught a glimpse of the purplish tinge of Sherlock’s collarbone peeking out from under his hospital smock. The scrape of a chair made John flinch just a fraction, thinking it so very eerie to see Sherlock so quiet and dormant.

‘Sherlock, please… please open your eyes.’

‘Oi, Sherlock.’

The inky mass of curls propped up on a pillow bristled at the sound of Greg’s voice. Sherlock opened one eye, and stared at the constable who was standing by his bed.

‘Long time, no see.’

‘Ah, Gavin. Promoted I see?’ Sherlock let a flicker of a smile pass his lips.

'How do you-?'

Opening his mouth to speak, and then closing it like a gormless goldfish, John glanced up at Greg, and back at Sherlock, before trying to make sense of it all.

‘Have you told him?’

‘Yes, he knows.’

‘Excuse me, I don’t know a thing!’

‘Oh John, don’t be so hard on yourself. Give yourself some credit, you’re not a total imbecile,’ Sherlock wheezed around a breathy laugh, wincing when he shifted his weight to look at them both properly.

Greg spoke up.

‘I was on patrol when I came across this guy high out of his mind last year. Glad to see you’re better. Well…’

‘I'm clean. Have been for three hundred and eighty four days.’

If it wasn't for the ache in his cheek and jaw, John was positive Sherlock would have been grinning proudly at himself. He looked down at him fondly, his own psychosomatic ache in his chest emerging.

‘Care to explain how this all came about then?’ Greg gestured to Sherlock’s prone state.

Sherlock slowly eased himself up on his elbows, then hands, to sit up straight, shaking his head when John leaned forward to help him.

‘John, I've been an idiot. I… I was tracking down Richard Henderson. Long story short, when I heard that several teenagers had wound up on your doorstep, John, in the past three weeks in similar drug-addled and starved states, I saw a pattern and tracked the scent,’ Sherlock sighed, and reached for the cup of water beside him.

‘He was one of the drug dealers that Victor never trusted, and for good reason. He’s not just involved in drug dealing and smuggling, but people. People. Young girls. I… I… I didn't realise that he had me trapped, and then he started asking whether M had left me a hint. Who’s M? And…’

John carefully placed his hand on Sherlock’s good shoulder, rubbing it slowly, trying to bring his breathing back down to a normal level. He nodded slowly that he was feeling better, and lay back down again.

‘It’s okay, calm down,’ Greg reassured.

‘Check my shirt, it’s got a muddy bootprint on it. If you give me a moment I can tell you where he might be.’

Greg alerted another nurse to retrieve Sherlock’s clothes, for evidence, and when he finally had his own shirt in his hands again, Sherlock ran a fingertip along one corner of the dusty footprint and dabbed it on his tongue, his eyes flickering back and forth across each cotton fibre.

‘An abandoned factory near the Thames. Possibly near a churchyard. He won’t have gotten far without giving up on his whole scheme. You’ve got a name, and a size eleven bootprint. Shouldn't take too long to run it through your database.'

Greg scratched this all down, delicately placing Sherlock’s shirt in an evidence bag and patted John on the shoulder once more before leaving the ward, whispering a small apology that he never told John that he had met this mad genius before.

‘Sherlock… you had me worried sick.’

John slowly lay his hand against Sherlock’s clammy forehead, too afraid to hurt Sherlock by hugging him properly.

‘Hmmm, I’d rather not have any vomity breath near me right now,’ Sherlock mumbled with a small smirk.

‘It’s a figure of speech, you eejit.’

Sherlock huffed out another small laugh, his voice less croaky and blinked up at John’s face with a watery smile.

‘John… thank you. And I'm sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise. It’s okay. I understand. You were trying to help, and like an idiot you decided to run into danger’s path at a moment’s notice.’

‘Hmm, yep, does that sound familiar to _you_ at all?’

‘I never said _I_ wasn't an idiot.’

‘Well, you’re not. Though you’re probably a bit mad.’

‘You know what, Sherlock. All the best people are.’

Sherlock reached out with his hand, palm up, and waited for John to slowly slide his fingers between his own. He brushed his thumb across John’s knuckles before tugging John forward with more strength than John honestly ever expected from him, until John was leaning across the bed, his nose a hair-breadth away from Sherlock’s.

This mad genius, his mad genius, pushed his lips just that hair-breadth closer to meet John’s.

* * *

 

Sherlock recovered to full health within three weeks, his cheek still tender to the touch, but that did not stop him from smiling, and giving soft little pecks, and receiving mind-numbing snogs from John that left him begging for more and return them, with even more fervour.

And so it was that on an early September morning, in his poky little kitchen, John found himself being enveloped around the waist from behind by a cuddly and strangely affectionate Sherlock Holmes.

‘Mmmm, morning,’ He yawned against John’s ear, his long pale fingers trailing underneath his pyjama shirt.

‘You are eating, and that’s final,’ John smiled, squeezing the teabags against the side of his mug before stumbling his way to the bin.

‘You can’t make me.’

‘I don’t have to.’

John nudged Sherlock’s hip, and shuffled over to the oven, taking out a fresh batch of heavenly golden honey cakes.

‘Oh, you cruel, cruel man. You know my weakness,’ Sherlock sighed dramatically, pouting.

‘Well if you didn't steal them from Mrs Hudson in the first place, your secret would have been safe.’

Sherlock grinned over the lip of his mug of tea, perfectly sweetened, and simply watched as this beautiful man placed the honey cakes out to cool, whose hair Sherlock desperately wanted to categorise with its myriad of browns and blonds and golds. He could write a novel – no, a scientific thesis – on how wonderful it was to nuzzle his nose into the haphazard halo of John’s bed-head hair on a morning.

‘Mmmm, John?’ Sherlock gulped down his tea, tapping his finger anxiously against the ceramic before setting it down. ‘I think I want to.’

‘Want to?’ John looked over his shoulder, and a sudden realisation was evident in the rapid blinking of his eyes. ‘Oh.’

‘Honestly John, sometimes you can be so-mmmph!’

John pressed Sherlock flat up against the fridge, chuckling to himself when Sherlock just whimpered (something that Sherlock would adamantly deny every time John mentioned it from that day onward) and clung to his shoulders.

Once the two of them tripped and traipsed their way down the hall to John’s bedroom, John paused.

John crawled onto his bed, shuffling the duvet down and waiting.

‘Nervous?’

John couldn't deny it. He was. He hadn't done anything like this before. Neither had Sherlock. He opened up his arms, lying back against his propped up pillows, and beckoned Sherlock towards him.

‘Me too.’

Sherlock crawled in beside John, humming contently when he rested his head upon John’s chest, his thumb and index finger worrying the frayed hem of John’s shirt.

John’s fingers twisted in the loose curls that lingered at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, at once amazed that he could be so small and so giant all at once. His large hands always enveloping John’s own, his height hovering just above John’s, and yet this sleepy curled up bundle that crawled his way into John’s arms could not be more contradictory. This gangly, lithe pillar of cocky intellect hid a fretful, cuddly little monster.

 Blinking inky black locks out of his eyes, John raised his head and softly looked down at the lanky git stuck to his side like a limpet.

'I wouldn't wish you to be anything other than the wonder that you are.'

‘Ugh, how horribly sentimental,’ Sherlock buried his face into the crook of John’s neck.

John giggled at the ticklish sensation of Sherlock’s cheeks and lips stretching into a grin and nuzzling even more against John’s skin.

Sherlock tugged up John’s shirt, pushing it up and over John’s head and sat back. They both divested each other of their clothes to form a messy pile on the floor and smiled at each other timidly. Sherlock crawled back down, kissing his way across John’s chest, nuzzling against the soft pudge just around his hips, breathing and licking along the v leading down to John’s swelling cock. They both hesitated. Sherlock’s eyes were sharp and inquisitive as he gazed back up at John, pressing another small kiss just inside his inner thigh.

God help him, Sherlock Holmes was his, and he was Sherlock’s, and it was a miracle beyond all comprehension.

‘Sherlock, what are you- _ngyaaahhhh_!’ John moaned loudly, and laughed at himself. Nope, nope he definitely did not make such a silly noise. He squirmed again as Sherlock’s tongue eked out to tease at his prick, his lips soon enveloping him and bobbing around the tip. ‘Oh god, don’t stop.’

Sherlock ran his fingers along John’s hip and thigh, and John somehow felt grounded. This was too surreal. And yet it felt like something so comforting and intimate and natural. He would happily curl up in bed for as long as possible just kissing and touching and _being_ with Sherlock.

‘Oh god, Sher-Sherlock, I can’t, _fuck_ , _I need_ -‘ John gulped around air as if he was drowning, his fingers tugging at Sherlock’s flyaway curls as he sucked and stroked. Letting out a soft cry, he melted against the mattress when Sherlock moaned around him, sucking him hard and taking him all in.

John opened his eyes. He groaned once more as he caught a glimpse of Sherlock wiping the tip of his thumb along his bottom lip and sucking, what John assumed was the remains of what he couldn't swallow, back into his mouth.

‘You are such a fucking wonder. Jeeeeeesus.’

Sherlock curled up in a ball, resting his head on John’s chest again and sliding his warm socked feet against John’s calves, pressing his lips to John’s sternum and simply humming. He glanced up, those bright eyes capturing his in the lamplight, and hid a bashful smile.

‘Come here.’

‘Hmm?’

Reaching for Sherlock’s thighs, he positioned them just below his own, and encouraged Sherlock to place his hands on his shoulders. John traced a fingertip along Sherlock’s cock, watching as Sherlock let out a shaky breath. John shuffled slightly, bucking up so that Sherlock lay pressed against the top of his thigh and hip.

Sherlock rocked slowly, his eyes wide, dark and dazed. John rolled his hips up, awkwardly giggling before they found a perfect rhythm. His beautiful genius leaned down, capturing his lips. John bucked up once more, moaning when he tasted the faint hint of himself on Sherlock’s tongue.

 _‘J-o-hn!’_ Sherlock hummed and whimpered, those full pink lips forming a perfect O around the vowel of his name. ‘Can I-I need to-‘

‘Yes, anything, oh anything, Sherlock.’

Rutting against John’s thigh, he braced himself on his forearms over John’s body. Sherlock tried to breathe, hearing, smelling, _feeling_ everything. He felt the slide of his cock against John’s skin and clutched John’s hair in his hands, and just as John’s free hand grasped at his arse, he felt like his body, his mind contained everything and nothing all at once.

He slumped over, spent, a shy giggle escaping him when he sensed John ruffling his curls out of his eyes. Peeling away, he sprawled on his back beside John. John stumbled out of bed, reluctant to leave the room, but desperate to at least try and find a flannel in the bathroom somewhere. As he sat up and stretched, Sherlock caressed a fingertip down his spine.

‘Hmmmm… John. You know you said _anything_?’ Sherlock put on a sweet saccharine voice that made John chuckle and realise just what Sherlock wanted.

‘Yeah, yeah, alright, I’ll go get the cakes.’ He stretched back to kiss Sherlock once more, nipping and sucking at his bottom lip before whispering, ‘brat.’

‘Idiot.’ Sherlock smiled, looping his hands around John’s neck and pulling him down once more.

The cakes could wait. They were both also pretty positive that Mike and Mrs Hudson could survive without them for another hour or two.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Little translation for Sherlock's muffled 'theetharelikeotmumsedoomake': These are like what mummy used to make.


End file.
